Make No Promises
by don't.diss.the.puff
Summary: Irene Adler has information that John will do anything to get. Dubcon, post-Reichenbach.


Make No Promises

**Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.**

* * *

John Hamish Watson tensed involuntarily as Irene Adler ran an impeccably manicured hand down his thigh. He glanced up to see her carefully evaluating his face.

"What, no battle dress?" he bitingly remarked, not that her current attire left much to the imagination. She was clad in a vividly red dress, dipping down in the front to the point where it made modest John blush. It clung tightly to her curvy figure and stopped inches above her knee. Her small feet were adorned with strappy black stilettos.

As if she noticed him looking, she slowly bent over, allowing John an unobstructed view down her dress. He averted his eyes as she slowly and deliberately slid off her dark heels and dangled them from her finger.

"That's better. Now don't sit so far away, soldier. I don't bite," the dominatrix whispered, "yet."

"I'm good where I am, thanks," he responded with a hint of a nervous tremor in his voice.

Irene leaned forward, grinning ever so slightly. "What's this? John Watson, Sherlock's brave soldier, afraid of me?" she murmured, her raspy soprano full of emotion.

"Don't… don't talk about him that way." John clenched his fists, trying to ignore the momentary break in his voice.

"But that's why I brought you here! Do you really think I would go to all this trouble for a mundane topic?"

And trouble she had certainly gone to. John had come home to his cramped apartment to find a strange man standing in the living room. Assuming Mycroft wanted to talk again, as they often did in the aftermath of that horrible day, he tentatively followed him into the dark black car. As soon as he sat down the car sped down a small lane, and John realized where he was going with a sickening lurch in his stomach.

He walked through the door of his long-ago home and through the entryway. The flat still smelled the same, of teabags and ink and lavender soap. A rush of nausea struck him and he crouched over, falling on the familiar couch of 221B Baker Street. A hand brushed his shoulder and he jolted up, meeting the brown eyes of The Woman.

"What could you possibly want to know about Sh… him that you don't already know?" John asked, returning to present time with a bump and an accusing lilt to his voice.

"It's not what I want to know. It's what you do."

"What is there to know? He's… he's dead," John stated, his voice flat and toneless but his eyes speaking more than his words ever could. "You're dead, for crying out loud!"

"And how do you know that?" she asked, leaning over and whispering the words. "Clearly I'm not, so what makes you think he can't be alive?"

"I saw it. I saw it with my own eyes. I saw it then and I see it every night," stated John, his voice a low growl.

"And what if you were wrong?" Irene prompted, smiling ever so slightly.

"I'm not wrong. I don't even know what I'm doing here," he said, and got up to walk out of his one-time home but was interrupted.

There was a loud bang and John ducked his head, only to look up and see a black stiletto stuck three inches in the wall where his head was only seconds ago.

"Or, you could stay," she seductively whispered, reaching over him and pinning him to the wall. John stared wide-eyed at Irene Adler's wide brown eyes positioned inches above his.

"You see, I do have some information regarding the late Mr. Sherlock Holmes that I know you would want," she purred into his ear, wrapping her arms around his neck. He strained backwards but was restricted by the concrete. His eyes widened as he realized what she was trying to do.

"And I'd be willing to give it to you for a specific… price."

"And what would that…" he started but was interrupted by her pressing her lips to his. Taken aback, he pressed his back against the wall as she furiously worked her mouth, running her fingers through his hair and working her fingers downwards to his shirt buttons. He opened his mouth to protest but she pressed her finger to his lips and kissed his now-exposed collarbone.

John broke away, gasping for breath.

"What the hell was that?" he asked angrily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You can't just… kiss me!"

"I think your mind may change once you get the information," she murmured.

"I'm not going to prostitute myself for information on my dead friend!" John shouted, surprising even himself at the ferocity behind his words. Irene flinched and pulled back.

"John Watson, I didn't want to have to go this far," she continued, "but Sherlock Holmes is alive."

* * *

"What kind of sick joke is this?" John raged. "I saw him lying on the pavement broken with my own two eyes! That image has been burned in my mind for the last three years and you have the audacity to tell me that it was a ruse? Who gave you the right? I remember every last detail about that day. Our fight, his desperate phone call, his red-stained blue scarf and his head askew on the ground. His cold wrist and his still heart. Never in a million years would I make that up."

"But what if you're wrong? One night with me, and you'll know. What do you have to lose? One night, and I'll lead you right to him. I promise."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"You can't. But I give you my word."

"Irene Adler, I take your word with a grain of salt. I saw him die with my own eyes three years ago and I felt myself dying along with him. I'm not getting up my hopes just to have them dashed to pieces by you. Nothing is worth that." With that, he elbowed her out of the way and stormed to the door.

"I can prove it," she said, the words flying out of her mouth, red-hot. Her blood-red lips pursed and she reached forward and pulled John back by the collar of his shirt. Pressing herself against him, she whispered seductively in his ear, "One night, and I'll bring you to him. Are you going to trust me, or are you going to walk out that door and never know if Sherlock Holmes is out there? Just one night with me. I promise you'll enjoy it."

The retired army doctor cringed at the thought of him and Irene tangled in the sheets and dripping with sweat. The dominatrix smirked, tracing her hand up his back and kissing his neck. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed her in the small of her back and pulled her closer, pressing his chapped lips to hers. She moaned, threading her fingers through his sandy blonde hair and biting down on his lower lip. John stumbled, hitting his bad leg on the corner of the coffee table and falling onto the worn couch with Irene on top of him. She deftly unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it off and kissing his heavily scarred shoulders.

He slid his hands up her back, unzipping her dress and pulling the narrow straps down her shoulders. Irene tilted her head back, kissing John while snaking her cold hands down his waist and lower back. He rolled over onto the floor, landing with a muffled bang and pinning the smaller woman underneath him. He tugged her hair loose from the tight bun and flung the hair tie over his shoulder. She looked young and innocent, lying there on the floor with her hair in a halo around her head. Irene wrapped her leg around John, pulling him closer while kissing him furiously.

"Let's go to the bedroom," she whispered, her soft soprano voice trembling. John quickly pulled her up, all the while keeping his lips pressed to hers. He kicked open the door to Sherlock's room, shoving stacks of papers off the bed as Irene pushed him down on the mattress.

* * *

John Watson sat up slowly, the sun bright in his eyes. He rubbed his sore back, feeling scratch wounds and bruises all up and down his arms and torso. His head hurt from crashing against the headboard. He slowly put on his pants and then his trousers, noticing fingernail marks all up and down his calves and thighs. Sherlock's riding crop hung beside the bed, stained scarlet. Irene began to stir, her soft brown eyes fluttering open and her hair strewn across the pillow. She was tangled in the soft cotton sheets, the covers on the floor and the pillows were askew. She looked younger than ever, sleep removing years from her face and her chestnut locks softening the sharp angles.

He carefully retrieved the blanket from the floor and covered her exposed body with it, his hand lingering on her hair for a moment as he turned and went into the bathroom. He flicked on the light, wincing as the brightness filled the small room.

Sherlock's bathroom was messy, strewn with hair brushes and shaving cream and stray socks. John quickly washed his face, borrowing a washcloth that still smelled faintly of the consulting detective. He ran his fingers through his softly tousled hair, sighing in resignation as it refused to lie flat. Turning the tap, he scrubbed his hands with soap until they didn't smell like Irene anymore.

Walking back into the small room, he saw Irene wrapped in one of Sherlock's dressing gowns perched delicately on the edge of the bed.

"I believe I owe you some information," she said almost mechanically, her voice betraying no emotion.

"I believe you do," John replied, trying to keep his voice passive.

"Sherlock Holmes survived the fall. He's in the third bedroom on the second floor of my house."

"He's in your house? All this time, and he was five minutes away from me?" John replied, furious at her for keeping this from him, furious at Sherlock for leaving, and at himself for not having guessed this sooner.

"He came to me an hour after the fall, accompanied by a small and mousy girl."

"Molly's in on it, too?" John asked, incredulous.

"He needed a way to escape from St. Bart's, and she was and is the most familiar with the campus."  
"I've seen her every day for the past five months, and she didn't bother to tell me that he was alive?"

"She was sworn to secrecy."

John shook his head, wanting to believe this but stubbornly refusing to.

"But why your house?" he asked, genuinely curious. "You two didn't seem to hit it off immediately."

"I recall you thinking I died."

"You were rather elusive on the topic."

"He saved my life. I owed him a favor."  
Sherlock saved her. He should have known.

"I want to see him."

"I assumed you would. I wasn't supposed to tell you. Our story is that you came by my house because you were lonely..."

"And I fancied a snog, I suppose. He's not going to believe that."

"Everyone gets lonely, John Hamish Watson. You came by later today, and saw Sherlock's coat by the door. You investigated around against my will and found him. Cue confrontation."  
"You want to trick Sherlock Holmes."

"I want to help you trick him."

It was just crazy enough to work.

* * *

The doorbell rang for two beats before it was opened by a breathless Irene clad in a loose green tunic, her feet bare and her hair loose.

"John Hamish Watson. Fancy seeing you here," she intoned, her voice light but purposeful and clear.

"I haven't seen you in a while, Irene," he carefully enunciated, dutifully practicing the dialogue practiced in his flat in the early hours of morning.

"I thought you believed me dead," she recited.

"Clearly you're not."

"That much is true. Would you like to come in?" she asked, amid the sound of footsteps upstairs.

"Please pardon my maid, she has the loudest footsteps," she said, winking subtly at John. "How have you been?"  
"I assume you've heard that Sherlock committed suicide," he said, his voice momentarily breaking as Irene nodded agreement.

"I'm terribly sorry to hear that. I read about it in the paper and it's a shame he had to go that way. Have you been doing alright? I know you two were close."

"I have been terribly lonely, now that you mention it. I came because I missed having someone to talk to that really… understood," he said, wincing at the cliché line.

"I'm sure you have," Irene replied, a seductive tone in her voice.

"I knew you would… no. Irene, I can't do this anymore."

"John, what are you doing?" Irene whispered, a tone of urgency in her voice.

"I'm not going to sit here and pretend! I know that Sherlock Holmes is upstairs right now, and I'm not going to sit here and exchange scripted pleasantries with you!" He stood up, the plush chair flying backwards as John turned and raced up the stairs, Irene right behind him.

John reached the second landing seconds before Irene, stopping right in front of the third door before stopping abruptly. Irene crashed into him, stumbling backwards into the wall.

"Sherlock," he said, "it's me."

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**A/N: Sorry about the fact I haven't updated since NOVEMBER. Anyway, loads of thanks to my lovely beta **lost in a musical daydrea**m for making this fic readable and being completely fabulous. Anyway, finals this week so don't expect too many updates coming up but I'm hoping to be more frequent.**

_Look at that sexy button. You should tap dat button. Right there. Tap dat button. The one that says review. Sexy sexy tappable review button. Okay bye._


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